


Say It

by Breath4Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Happy Ending, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock, Post S4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:10:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9350363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: Their moment comes... Finally.Confessions are made and everything changes.Season 4 was... unsatisfying so the night of the final episode I stayed up and sketched an image of John and Sherlock getting their kiss at long last. As I sketched this story came along with that image.





	

“Alright. I’m ready now... Say _it,_ ” John says abruptly, taking hold of Sherlock’s wrist and turning to face him. He is smiling; laughter still lingering on his lips from the bout of giggling they’d just shared over the ridiculous attempt at escape the criminal had made when they’d cornered him during the case they'd just concluded. 

Regent’s park is hushed around them. They’ve cut through heading back to Baker Street, enjoying a walk in the unseasonably pleasant weather. The late afternoon sun is warm with the first breath of Spring in the air, the world springing back to life in that way that stirs the soul back to awareness.

John is incandescent; his whole face is glowing with the exertion of the case, his eyes are sparkling with the thrill of the challenge and his silver hair is quivering in the breath of wind. 

That familiar warmth curls into Sherlock's chest at seeing John like this and, under John's attentive stare, that heat creeps into his cheeks. He looks down at John’s grasp on his wrist as he feels an uncomfortable twinge in his stomach.

“Say _what?_ ” Sherlock pulls his eyes up to John as his face scrunches in confusion. 

“Come on. You were giving me _that look_ , Sherlock... I know what it means.” A jolt of cold anxiety shoots through Sherlock’s system and he swallows. Of course John knows... he's not an idiot.

“This is my face, John. I look how I always look,” Sherlock retorts and shifts uneasily, his mind scrambling for a distraction. John’s thumb moves gently back and forth over the bone of Sherlock’s wrist and Sherlock can't retreat from that touch. He knows John can feel his hammering pulse, see his pupils growing wide with the intimacy of that touch. He has taught the man too well for him to miss these things.

"Say _it_. You want to. Come on," John prods. His posture is straight, shoulders are back; he is resolute - determined to see this through. A feeling like dread pulls Sherlock’s chest tight and it suddenly feels too warm - too hard to breathe. Sherlock swallows, trying to close off the secrets brimming behind his eyes.

"You're an idiot, John," Sherlock states flatly. John snorts and Sherlock's heart squeezes tight in his chest. His skin is crawling with little sparks from John's warm hand around his wrist.

"Right. We've established _that._ " John smiles, his voice has gone softer. “Come on… I know you _can_ say it. I heard you say it to Rosie the other day.” 

Two years. Two years since Mary and those three words have been hanging between them - safely unspoken, caged in Sherlock’s chest. Of course it isn’t the words that have the power to change everything - it is that they are _true_ … They are the most true thing about Sherlock and that John can never mean them in the same way as Sherlock does means they must remain hidden... safely imprisoned for their own protection. 

But the way he is looking up at Sherlock now… changeable blue eyes like the ocean capturing the cloudless sky; calm on the surface and holding so much unbridled power and universes unknown in their unfathomable depths. Those words won’t be left to hide in the dark anymore.

Sherlock pushes together his lips to keep those damning words in but he knows his eyes are betraying him, spilling it out in the space between them.

“Alright,” John says patiently, a warm smile curling his lips as he tips his head to the side thoughtfully. His other hand wraps around Sherlock’s other wrist and they are a complete, closed circuit now - electricity pulsing through them with nowhere to escape. “It’s fine… All fine, Sherlock… I suppose Rosie did say it first… So it’s on me this time. I can say it first.” John’s smile grows and there is something close to joy on his features as he leans forward; face passing close to Sherlock’s; lips presumably heading towards a place beside Sherlock’s ear to whisper those words. 

However, it is at that very moment, looking down at John’s lips, so close and holding back the words Sherlock has longed to hear for so many years, that it becomes physically impossible for Sherlock to exist one more heartbeat without kissing John Watson. 

He can’t say it - can’t make those small, trite words hold everything they need to - but there can be no mistaking the meaning, the intention, the truth of a kiss. So Sherlock closes his eyes and lets his lips say what he cannot give voice to. 

It is trembling, fragile, pressing hard so as to burn its irreparable mark deep into flesh. For a moment everything teeters there on the edge of oblivion, the roar and swell of an ocean held at bay. Then John’s lips slide and his head tilts as his hands moved up to clasp Sherlock’s forearms, not pushing away - not disconnecting - pulling Sherlock in tighter so that he can part his lips, deepen that kiss, and invite Sherlock in. 

The dam brakes and Sherlock pours himself into John. The almost violent rush and slide of it taking everything in its wake. 

Deep waters and Sherlock is lost to the flood of John Watson.

He can’t breathe but breathing is boring and John may be the ocean but Sherlock has a thousand rivers to feed that ocean and together, just the two of them, they reshape the earth. There is nothing, no boulder nor mountain, that will not yield to the persistence of water over time. It is in all things and there is nothing that can live without it. And, now, at last, it is free to flow out of Sherlock, those stagnant waters churn to life and spill out in a roar and just when he thinks he is empty, he feels John rush back in to fill the voids left behind, cleansing him and opening endless springs, pure and untouched, to bubble to the surface. 

It is truth.  
It is the essence of life.  
It is rebirth.

It is John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, _at long last._


End file.
